


more than seven minutes in heaven

by starblessed



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Locked In, M/M, Trapped In A Closet, skinny needs therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 11:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12530044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Sometimes, when there’s too much unresolved sexual tension, you have to force a resolution.Or, the one where Webster and Liebgott get locked in a closet.(It has to be this way,Skinny tells himself.Either they kiss, they kill each other, or I’m gonna go insane. This is for my own good.)





	more than seven minutes in heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

“You callous, egotistical, arrogant, _asshole_ –”

“Careful, I don’t think that last one’s in your dictionary!”

“Do you have hobbies other than being a complete jackass, or is this really how you get your kicks?”

“I’m the jackass? Mister 'I’m a writer, I don’t need a _real_ job' is calling _me_ a jackass? Am I fuckin’ hearing this right?“

"Writing _is_ a real job!”

“And pro wrestling is real! Wake up and smell the taxes, Web! How the hell do you expect to live with us if you can’t even pay up?”

“I contribute my share of the rent _every_ month –”

“From your daddy’s bank account!”

 _“_ That’s it! You want to say that to me face, you immature ass? Come here! Say it!”

Something crashes against the wall. Yup, Webster has definitely started throwing things again. (Webster is usually the one to start throwing things. Liebgott throws punches. In hand to hand Lieb could take Webster down easily, but Web’s got surprisingly good aim. Skinny just hopes they’re my standing near anything expensive.)

Another loud crash. Something breaks.

“That was Skinny’s basketball trophy, you asshole!”

“Who threw it?”

That’s it. Skinny slams his fists down on his desk, causing his lamp and pencils to jump. There is only so much a person can put up with and still stay sane. He’s reached his limit. He can handle competition, he can handle rivalry, he can handle flat-out hating someone, but he can not continue to live with a war in his house.

The constant arguments and threats of violence would be enough were it not obvious that they want to jump each others’ bones. The sexual tension filling the house is thick enough to kill a man, and is going to kill _Skinny._

He’s had enough.

His fingers scramble for his phone. He’s dialing a familiar number before he knows it.

“I can’t anymore,” he mutters into the phone. “I just can’t fuckin’ take it.”

He can’t see Luz, but he can hear the smile spreading across his face, unfurling like a sunflower on a summer’s day. He lets out a huff of breath, not quite a laugh, before a solid chuckle crackles over the line.

“Skinny, my friend,” says Luz, “You’ve entrusted your salvation to capable hands.”

* * *

He wants to trust Luz, he really does, because Luz is a solid guy and he’s known him for ages. He’s never done him any wrong. Luz is the sort of person who goes out of his way to help people, and just to be a friend to anyone in need. Skinny would love to trust Luz two-hundred percent on this, but he just… can’t.

This isn’t salvation. This is how murders happen.

Luz lured both targets with the oldest trick in the book. He pretends to be struggling to get something out of the closet, and calls them both to come help him. As soon as Lieb and Web walked in, Luz ran out, and the door slammed behind him. The lock clicked shut. For two seconds, silence hung across the entire apartment.

Then, the closet erupted into chaos.

“What the hell?” hollered Liebgott, fists banging against the wooden door. “Let us out!”

“This isn’t funny, guys!” added Webster.

If they were hoping for a response, they didn’t get one. Their friends are in unanimous agreement to ignore the two of them until it seems like they’ve come to a peaceful resolution to their problems – however long that wait might be.

“Ten bucks says one of ‘em will be dead in a hour,” says Luz. Hoobler whistles, while Grant offers fifteen that Webster will come out on top. It’s a risky move, but Skinny has seen firsthand how scrappy Webster can be in a fight. He takes the bet.

There’s a part of Skinny that knows this isnt a nice thing to do to his friends. Then he remembers that he’s the one who has to live with them. The fractured ruins of his basketball trophy flickers back into his mind. That’s all it takes for his sympathy to vanish. This is going to accomplish something. Someone will die, or his roommates will sort their shit out.

Either way, Skinny is getting his revenge.

* * *

“This is ridiculous,” Liebgott snarls. He’s curled up on the floor, legs drawn to his chest and chin resting on his knees. He looks like a sullen kid, or a very lanky pretzel. Webster rolls his eyes.

“We could try picking the lock again.”

“It’s not working. You try it.” 

“Fine,” Webster shoots back, and snatches up the paper clip Liebgott has been playing with for the past half hour. He jimmies it in the lock, listening for that godsend click that will set him free of this purgatory. Of course, the lock doesn’t open.

If Liebgott, who’s picked more locks than Webster has favorite poets, couldn’t do it, there’s no way Webster could. Webster isn’t a borderline criminal.

He settles back, frowning at the door. From his corner, Liebgott lets out a raspy chuckle. “Now who’s pouting?”

“Shut up,” Webster mutters. The other man rolls his eyes.

Neither one of them speak for a few more minutes. Somehow, the silence is worse than listening to Liebgott ramble. In the silence Webster can hear everything, from Liebgott’s shallow breaths to the pounding of his own heart. He swears he can hear the blood in his veins, but it’s not as deafening as it needs to be. It doesn’t drown out the fact that he isn’t alone.

“Could be worse,” Liebgott says after a few seconds, startling Webster. “It’s a nice closet. We could be locked in a smaller one.”

“How many closets have you been locked in?”

Liebgott’s mouth twists into a dangerous smirk. “A couple.” Webster raises his eyebrows. His eyes meet Liebgott’s in the dim light, and their gazes linger on each other for several long seconds. It feels impossible to pull away; there is something between them, something sharp, painful, and electric. The closet feels smaller all at once. Breaking their gazes first, Webster looks away. He can’t stand to be around Liebgott this long on a good day. Has it been an hour now? More? Liebgott exhales. Webster closes his eyes and pretends he can’t hear him. “You ever played Seven Minutes in Heaven, Web?”

Webster’s brow furrows. “No.”

“It’s something else. You lock two people in a closet, turn off the lights, and give them seven minutes. Whatever they do in there is up to them.”

There are no lights in this closet, and it’s been more than seven minutes. Liebgott’s point is worthless. Is it Webster’s imagination, or is Liebgott closer than he was before. Maybe the closet is getting smaller.

“I’ve never played,” he grinds out, frowning at the floor. “It doesn’t seem interesting.”

“It’s more fun that it sounds.” Liebgott is definitely closer now. Webster’s heartbeat screams in his ears. 

“Joe, what do you –” he cuts himself off. He can’t say it. He knows, but he can’t say it.

Getting locked in a closet hasn’t changed a thing. They both still hate each other; they can’t stand each other’s presence, and can’t be in a room for more than two minutes without an argument. It’s been over an hour now, and they’ve had so many arguments that maybe they’re burnt out. Maybe all their bluster is gone, and the only thing left is what’s underneath the surface of every one of their arguments.

“Joe,” Webster says, staring straight ahead – and not down at the hand on his knee. “What are you doing?”

“Wanna play, Web?”

It’s a question, but it isn’t. There’s only one answer Webster can give.

He leans over, and somewhere in the darkness he finds Liebgott’s lips.

God, it’s beautiful. It’s more of a release than any argument, any explosion of anger can ever be. Liebgott’s lips are chapped where Webster’s are soft, he’s pushy where Webster is needy, he’s timid and bold and curious and intense, all in a single lock of lips. Webster doesn’t think about breathing until his lungs are burning, and he can barely remember his own name. When he pulls back, he gasps for air.

Liebgott is breathing heavily too, eyes wide and lips flushed pink. He looks stunned.

“You know something?” he says after a moment. “I feel a lot better.”

“Yeah,” agrees Webster. “Me too.”

Just then, the door’s lock clicks, and it swings open to bathe the closet in light. The figure in the doorway gapes down at Liebgott and Webster, both on the floor, before taking a step away.

“Guys, nobody’s dead,” Grant announces. A few curses from behind him let them know that someone lost a bet.

“Assholes,” Liebgott mutters, hauling himself to his feet and brushing past Grant. He pauses in the doorway however, looking over his shoulder. “You coming, Web?”

Webster blinks after him for a split second before scrambling to his feet. “Well, I don’t feel like staying in here any longer.”

Being out of the closet is freeing. He feels like he can breathe again; the air is no longer stale, heavy with Liebgott. Instead he bears the scrutiny of his friends, who note his red lips and flushed cheeks. Hoobler raises his eyebrows. Webster just shakes his head.

Getting locked in a room with Liebgott has definitely been the most inconvenient part of his day – for better or worse.


End file.
